


Zorro Begins

by LadyDrace



Series: Connor Is Basically Zorro [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Cat Burglar Connor (Detroit: Become Human), First Meetings, Hopeful Ending, M/M, POV Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Police Officer Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Theft, Thief Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: Connor might be a little bit like Batman.He also has a type, and his type just found him.It's an interesting first day undercover, that's for sure.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: Connor Is Basically Zorro [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987648
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	Zorro Begins

**Author's Note:**

> This is set before the events of the first installment, but I recommend reading them in posted order, to not ruin the twist of the first fic. 
> 
> Thanks again to the hankcon discord crew who kept me going with word wars/sprints and general encouragement. <3

“Hold it. Hands where I can see ‘em.”

Connor hears the words behind him, and has a brief moment of panic. Did he somehow miss an alarm? Did anyone see him? No. No, he’s sure he did it perfectly. He’s done the simulation so many times he could do it in his sleep, and nothing unexpected popped up on his way in here.

He slowly puts up his hands, but makes a point of not letting go of the tiara he’s holding. It’s probably his inner asshole speaking, but he has a personal motto of only ever doing _exactly_ what he’s told when he’s given an order. No more, no less.

He’s… not great at taking orders.

Which is another reason why he jumped at the chance to take this undercover case. The main reason, however, was just that he’s _bored_.

Cybercrime sounds exciting at first, but before long you spend sixty hours a week just looking at your various hacking routines running, packets uploading and information downloading. And Connor didn’t spend fifteen years in school to be bored on a daily basis.

He feels the tiara being snatched out of his hand, and is a little impressed. Despite the deep, powerful voice barking orders, this guy must be light on his feet, because Connor didn’t hear him move even when he knew he was there.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

Connor begrudgingly does as he’s told, and comes face to face with…

His brain does a brief screech noise, because the man in front of him is like the personification of all of Connor’s deepest sexual fantasies.

See, he has a _type_. He’s always had a type. If he had to pick a label for himself he’d say he’s bi or maybe pan, seeing as his dating history is quite varied. But _nothing_ gets him going more than big, strong, experienced men with a hint of softness to them. Extra bonus points if they also look a little bit sad and mysterious.

And holy shit, the guy pointing a gun at him is everything Connor has ever jerked off to in one convenient package. And he’s a cop, too, judging from the DPD issue pistol and the whole attitude. So there’s a half decent chance they have a few things in common personality-wise as well. Unless he’s a dirty cop, in which case Connor won’t feel the least bit bad about using him for spank bank material and nothing else.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?” the officer asks, which Connor thinks is a little rich, coming from a guy wearing what looks suspiciously like a bowling shirt under his sturdy jacket.

“I’d think that was obvious,” Connor says, putting just a hint of a purr into his voice, just because he’s really hot for this man, and can’t help but lean into it a little. Sadly, it seems to have zero effect on his new friend, who keeps the gun on him while calling in a B and E. He refers to Connor as “ _some joker_ ,” which Connor thinks is unwarranted.

Dispatch tells him backup is on the way, and Connor figures he has maybe ten minutes to get out of this situation. He’s already got most of what he came for, so if he can only slip away this might even be an advantage to his reputation.

“So,” Connor says, hitching on a flirtatious smile. “Whatever shall we do while we wait?”

“ _We_ won’t be doing anything. You’ll stay right there, not moving a muscle, and I’ll stay here, pointing this gun at you.”

That’s annoyingly sensible. Connor might have to turn to his gadgets. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to. He’s a cat burglar, not Batman. But, then again, Batman did have some good tricks.

To his luck, however, the janitor – whose routine Connor has memorized – comes back around right on cue. At this point Connor had planned to be done and out of the room, ready to slip through the self-closing door behind the janitor before it can lock.

The poor old geezer, clearly not prepared to see a plain-clothes cop holding up a jewelry thief, drops his mop with a squeak, and the cop is distracted for just long enough that Connor can reach into a pocket for a tiny ball, and let it drop silently to the floor before those piercing blue eyes are back on him. The gun didn’t even waver. Which is a little impressive.

“Don’t you fucking try anything,” the cop says, and Connor twitches his hands to illustrate that they’re still dutifully up. However, his foot is now resting lightly on the little ball, nestled invisibly in the carpet.

He waits until the cop’s eyes are directed back at the janitor to tell him to clear out, before giving the ball a little press, and flicking his foot to send it flying.

The cop realizes he moved, but since he only saw out of the corner of his eye, Connor can make a good show of waving his hands over his head in proof that he’s behaving, and probably get away with it. As long as backup doesn’t arrive early.

Connor hears the whoop of a siren, and silently prays that his gadget will do the trick quickly enough. He knows where he’s going, he just needs the right distraction.

It all comes together perfectly. The backup officers slam into the room in chaotic mess, just as the ball explodes with a bang sharp enough to make eardrums ache for anyone within a few feet. Connor made sure to kick the ball to the side of him where his earpiece is, so he’s slightly protected.

The cops, however, all wince in unison, and the guns lower just enough that Connor has that extra second he needs. He drops out of sight behind a desk and throws another ball, which immediately erupts into a cloud of smoke. Concealed, he makes a quick jump onto a filing cabinet, rams his elbow against the only lightly secured vent cover for the air con, and then he’s in the cool ducts, squirming silently to the next room.

“Fuck, he’s in the vent!” Connor hears, and is once again mildly impressed. Going on no more than sound, his new cop friend correctly deduced where he went. Which means…

Connor slows to a stop and listens.

Sure enough, footsteps in the hallway outside tells him that the clever bastard is already moving to catch him in the next room. So Connor does one of his party tricks and folds himself in half so he can turn around in the narrow tube, and crawl at a decent pace in the opposite direction, past the cover he bashed in, and eventually emerging three rooms down from where there’s now a lot of angry shouting.

He no longer has the janitor exit, so he has to be creative.

Mentally going over the building plans, he considers his options. The bathroom has a window. It’ll be tight, and it’s up high. But it’s doable.

“Do you need extraction?” comes the cold, professional voice in his ear.

“No. I can handle it,” Connor says. He won’t ask for extraction unless he has no other choice. And most certainly not on his very first heist.

Something tells him to hide, so he does, scooting under a couch that seems far too low to allow a person. But if he just lifts the edge slightly, he can fit under it, the springs obligingly allowing him room once all four legs are back on the ground.

He’s barely settled before two pairs of feet hurry by, right in front of his nose, and that commanding voice is sounding again.

“He doubled back on us, _fuck_. Search the whole place. I’ll call the manager, get the floor locked down.”

Wow, now Connor’s _annoyed_. Plus even more impressed and also a little horny. Professionalism really does it for him.

He’s now fairly certain he’s dealing with a higher ranking officer, who’s clearly experienced in flushing out vermin. But this particular vermin has more tricks up his sleeve.

One pair of feet leave, and Connor is left staring at the other pair, moving in the slow, methodical way of a beat cop checking angles and opening closets. So his higher ranking friend left. And this remaining cop doesn’t seem to be doing anything other than following the basics. So once they’re done with their sweep in one half of the room, Connor slips out from under the couch next time their toes are pointing away, and darts from one bit of furniture to the next until he can get circle back around, watching as the cop calls “clear!” to her friends in the hallway.

He’s tucked away behind an armchair as he hears the search party move down the hall, going through room after room. Clearly the hot officer knows this building well enough to know that the venting won’t let Connor leave the floor, and is sweeping from one end to the next. It leaves Connor with few options. Cops are now fanned out across his escape routes.

“Are you certain you don’t need extraction?”

“Affirmative.”

“Connor-”

  
  
“I can do it, Amanda.”

There’s a pause that clearly conveys that Amanda isn’t taking his word for it, but eventually she does sigh.

“Very well. On your head be it, then.”

“Thank you,” he says archly, and then moves to the door, peeking down the hall. He can see his dream guy directing people around further down, a few lower ranking cops still doing sweeps, and one of them coming out of the bathroom.

And that’s the stroke of luck Connor needs. The bathroom door is left ajar, and he waits with bated breath until there’s just the right gap between cops, and then darts across the hall.

“Shit, he’s here!”

Connor curses to himself. How the fuck that clever bastard spotted him through the distraction of at least five cops and from thirty yards away Connor will never know.

He flips the lock behind him, and prays silently that the mechanical lockdown of the floor doesn’t account for child-sized windows.

It doesn’t, _hallelujah_.

He’ll have to dislocate his shoulder, which sucks, but it’ll be worth it. He’s just pulling his feet through after him when the door slams inward, and he makes quick work of sliding down the drain pipe to a dark balcony on a lower floor.

A mop of gray hair pops out through the bathroom window, and Connor gives his new friend a cheery salute before darting under the balcony’s half roof. He listens to a quite colorful array of swear words, smiling to himself, and breathes through the pain of wrenching his shoulder back in. It always goes out easy, but getting it back in _sucks_ , and he’ll need several ice packs and painkillers through the night.

He gives himself just another few seconds to gasp through the pain and test his range of motion, before getting back on the drain pipe and sliding all the way down to the ground.

Casting one last glance upwards he sends a fond thought to the man of his dreams, before slipping off into the night and onwards home to be frustrated over how he now can’t even jerk off, thanks to the fact that the shoulder that pops out easiest also happens to be connected to his dominant hand.

Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

End.


End file.
